I get dressed in my usual burgundy rubbish school uniform, but I pack my black outfit and my beautiful leather jacket, carefully wrapped up in a soft towel in a laundry bag. Mum’s back early from her cleaning and catches me before I leave for school.
‘Hey, babe, how are you doing?’ she says, dashing in. ‘All set for your big day?’
Then she catches sight of my bulging bag. ‘What’s that?’
‘Well, I can’t sing in my uniform, Mum.’
‘Yeah, I know, but . . .’ She opens the bag. ‘Oh, Destiny, not your jacket! You can’t take that to school.’
‘I’ll look after it, Mum. Believe me, I’m not going to let it out of my sight. But I need that jacket. I have to sing in it.’
‘But if one of them kids gets their mucky little fingers on it—’
‘Just let them try! I’m wearing it this afternoon – and you’ll see me in it this evening.’
‘I can’t wait, babes! I’m so proud of you. Singing in front of a packed audience, just like your dad! I’m so thrilled you’ve got Danny’s talent.’
‘I don’t want to take after Dad, I want to take after you,’ I say, giving her a hug.
She feels so thin – and she’s burning.
‘Mum, you’re so hot! You haven’t got a temperature, have you?’
‘What? No, of course not. I’m just a bit worked up, that’s all,’ says Mum.
I look at her worriedly. She’s got dark circles under her eyes. I don’t think she’s sleeping properly. Her eyes look so big, as if they’re about to pop right out of her head. She looks permanently anxious now. I wish I could stop her being so worried all the time.
‘If I really do take after Danny then I’m going to be a big rock star, right – and do you know what I’m going to do?’ I say, cuddling her.
‘What’s that, babe? Are you going to buy a lovely big mansion like Danny’s?’
‘Yep, and guess who’s going to live in it with me?’
‘Who’s that, darling?’
‘You, silly! You’ll live like a queen. You’ll have a whole suite of rooms, and one of those four-poster beds you like, much better than that one Steve got you, with wonderful velvet curtains and real silk sheets, and you can sleep in every morning because you won’t ever have to do any work again – no cleaning, no sad old folk, no drunks down the pub – you can just lie back like a lady of leisure.’
‘Oh, darling, that would be lovely,’ says Mum. ‘But just now I’ve got my old dears to change and feed and water – and you’ve got school. Good luck this afternoon, Destiny. You sock it to them! And for pity’s sake, look after that jacket!’
This is harder than I’d thought. I lumber the laundry bag all the way to school – going the long way round, of course – and because I’m not as nippy as usual I arrive a minute or two after the bell has gone. It doesn’t really matter. The teachers are mostly glad you’ve turned up at all – but as luck would have it, Mr Juniper is hovering at the door, officiously recording in the late book.
Mr Juniper is a tall weedy guy fresh out of training college. Maybe it was a training college for Serious Young Offenders, because he’s sooo strict. He yells at everyone, getting so worked up that froth forms on his lips and you have to stand back or you’ll get sprayed. He’s always dishing out detentions, trying to make you stay after school. You just know he would so love it if teachers were allowed to whack us with a cane like they did in the old days.
‘You! What’s your name?’ he shouts, starting to froth already.
‘Destiny.’
‘Destiny?’ He pulls a ridiculous face. ‘You are not telling me that’s your name?’
‘Yes. Is that a problem?’ I say. How dare he patronize me just because I’ve got an unusual name.
‘Don’t you use that tone with me! Destiny what?’
‘Destiny Williams.’
‘Well, Destiny Williams, you’re now down in my late book. You will lose a form point.’
I don’t give a stuff about form points but this infuriates me even so.
‘I’m only a minute late, Mr Juniper!’
He consults his watch. ‘Five minutes and thirty seconds,’ he says.
‘Well, half of that time I’ve been here at school talking to you.’
‘Stop answering me back in that impertinent way! You’ll get a detention if you’re not careful. Now on your way to your classroom, quick sharp.’
I walk off briskly, dragging my burden.
‘What are you doing with that ridiculous bag?’ he shouts after me. ‘That’s not a proper school bag.’
‘It’s my clothes for the concert this afternoon.’
‘Well, you can’t possibly drag them around with you all day. Unpack them and hang them up in the cloakroom.’
I stare at him. ‘Are you mad?’ I say it without thinking.
He holds me up for another five minutes, ticking me off for insolence and saying I’ve got to do a half-hour’s detention in his classroom after school this afternoon – though he knows I’ve got to whizz home after the school performance to get my tea before coming back for the evening one. Still, it’s a waste of breath arguing with him. I just stand there, letting him witter on, until some other poor kid slopes in even later and he starts picking on him instead.
I make out I’m off to put my bag on my peg in the cloakroom – but as soon as Mr Juniper’s back is turned I charge off with it down the corridor. As if I’m leaving my leather jacket there! Someone would nick it in five seconds. And I’m not going to bother to go to his poxy classroom after school either. He’ll probably forget all about his detention – and too bad if he doesn’t.
I manage to get myself and my bag into the classroom without Mr Roberts taking too much notice – he’s in full flow, giving everyone performance tips for this afternoon. But then he starts walking up and down between the aisles – and trips right over my bag. He peers down at it.
‘Are you taking in laundry, Destiny?’
‘Oh, ha ha. It’s my costume, Mr Roberts,’ I say.
‘Well, put it in the PE store cupboard. That’s where everyone else is keeping their kit,’ says Mr Roberts.
‘I can’t do that, Mr Roberts,’ I say.
‘Can’t – or won’t?’ says Mr Roberts.
‘Both,’ I say.
Mr Roberts stands over me, folding his arms. The whole classroom goes eerily quiet. Mr Roberts is obviously pretty tense about the talent contest – and now, here I am, winding him up.
He clears his throat theatrically. ‘Here we both are in the classroom, Destiny. I have a simple question for you. Am I your fellow pupil? In which case you can choose to do what I say, according to your general obliging nature or common sense. Am I a pupil in this classroom, Destiny?’
‘No, Mr Roberts.’
‘What am I, then?’
Various answers spring to mind, but I’m not entirely daft.
‘You’re my teacher, Mr Roberts.’
‘That’s right! So therefore I tell you what to do – and you obey. Is that correct?’
I hesitate. ‘Generally, sir.’
‘No, no, Destiny. You obey at all times. So take your cumbersome laundry bag to the PE store cupboard and leave it there.’
I don’t move.
‘Pronto!’
I don’t know what to do. Mr Roberts isn’t an officious twit like Mr Juniper. You can usually talk to him and explain stuff.
‘Mr Roberts, I can’t. It’s too precious.’
‘So what exactly is this costume, Destiny? Cloth of gold?’
‘It’s – it’s my jeans and stuff,’ I say, not wanting to say outright.
Some of the kids start sniggering.
‘Oh, precious jeans,’ says Mr Roberts. ‘Hand sewn with Swarovski crystals, perhaps?’
Now everyone’s laughing at me.
‘Let’s have a look at these little sparklers,’ says Mr Roberts, and he dives into my bag before I can stop him.
He brings out the ol
d towel. The classroom collapses. Mr Roberts shakes the towel as if he’s a bullfighter, really hamming it up – and the leather jacket falls out. He picks it up in astonishment. Everyone’s astonished.
‘Wow! Look at Destiny’s jacket!’
‘That leather – it looks as soft as butter.’
‘Look at all those zippy bits.’
‘Where did she get it?’
‘It must be worth hundreds.’
‘I bet her mum nicked it!’
‘My mum didn’t nick it, so you shut your face, Angel,’ I yell. ‘It was given to me as a present, see.’
‘Yeah, pull the other one!’
‘You’re talking rubbish, Destiny. A present!’
‘It was a present. You shut up!’ I shout.
‘Now calm down, Destiny,’ says Mr Roberts. He’s folding my jacket up again, trying to put it back inside my towel, but doing it all wrong so that the sleeves are wrinkling up.
‘Let me do it,’ I say. ‘It’s my present. A friend gave it to me.’
‘Don’t be so daft, Destiny,’ says Angel. ‘You haven’t got any friends.’
‘You don’t know anything about me! I have so got a very special friend, only I’m not going to tell you anything about her because it’s none of your business, see.’
‘Hey, hey, let’s stop all the argy-bargy. We’re all losing the plot here,’ says Mr Roberts. ‘Settle down, all of you.’
He leans over me. ‘It’s a beautiful jacket, Destiny,’ he says very softly. ‘I can see why you’re so worried about it. A sensible girl would never take such a clearly expensive jacket into school with her – but I can see why you long to wear it for the talent contest. A sensible teacher would send you all the way home with it – and a really strict teacher wouldn’t let you take part in the contest for refusing to do as you’re told. But I’m not always sensible and I don’t seem to have it in me to be strict. However, I can’t keep falling over that bag, and now the others have seen the jacket they’ll be all over you to try it on, and before you know where you are it will be ripped to shreds. So how about running it along to the school secretary’s office? Mrs Hazel keeps her room locked whenever she’s out of it. I’m sure she’ll look after it for you until after lunch. Is that a deal?’ He holds out his hand and I shake it very gratefully.
‘You’re a very, very kind teacher, Mr Roberts,’ I say.
I take the jacket in its bag to Mrs Hazel and tell her Mr Roberts said I had to leave it with her. She keeps all the money and the medication locked up. Her office is like Fort Knox.
She doesn’t look too happy about it. ‘Tell Mr Roberts my room isn’t a left-luggage office, Destiny. I don’t want it cluttered up with any more bags, thank you very much.’
But I know my jacket is safe now.
I still can’t manage to concentrate on school work, and eating lunch is an ordeal. I manage five baked beans and one chip and know I’ll throw up if I have any more. Most of the boys still shovel stuff down, but outside in the playground, where both boy dance groups are rehearsing their somersaults and backflips, Rocky throws up all down himself like a disgusting fountain. Mr Roberts sends him off to be hosed down and shakes his head at all of us.
‘Why don’t you all relax, guys. No more rehearsing. Just chill out until the bell goes – and then quietly collect your stuff from Mrs Avery, get changed, and come backstage in the hall. There’s no need to get so worked up. You’re all going to do splendidly.’
They go off in little groups. I wander off by myself, walking round and round the playground. I pretend Sunset is walking round with me. We’re linked arm in arm, and she’s telling me I’m going to sing Destiny perfectly. ‘Better than Dad!’ she says, and we both laugh.
Then the bell rings and – oh God – it’s time! I whizz off to Mrs Hazel and collect my stuff, and then I change in the girls’ toilets. The mirror by the wash basins is too high up to see all of me, but if I leap up I can see as far down as my waist. The jacket looks wonderful. I feel like I’ve got Sunset’s arms round me, giving me a hug.
I rush off to the hall, and then force myself to stop and breathe deeply before joining the others. I mustn’t show I’m nervous. I need to look cool!
It’s pandemonium behind the stage, kids running around everywhere, boys doing backflips, girls step-shuffle-tapping, Fareed dropping all his cards, Mrs Avery frantically sewing up someone’s skirt, Mr Roberts red in the face, great damp patches under his arms.
Lots of the kids nudge each other when they see me.
‘Look at Destiny!’
‘Love the jacket!’
‘Wow, doesn’t she look different?’
Angel tugs my jacket. ‘What you wearing them silly mittens for? And why all black? You look like you’re going to a funeral.’
‘It’ll be yours if you don’t take your clammy hands off my jacket,’ I say, twitching away from her.
Jack Myers is still staring at me. Is he going to have a go too? He comes up close, sticking his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. ‘You look great, Destiny,’ he says.
I blink at him, wondering if this is a wind-up.
‘I think you’re a fantastic singer too. I bet you win the contest,’ he says.
I stare at him. ‘Thanks, Jack,’ I say.
We’re still staring. We’ve run out of words. Jack eventually nods and goes over to the rest of his gang.
‘You can take that smirk off your face,’ says Angel. ‘He’s just saying that. He knows he’ll win. He’s the most popular boy in the whole school. Everyone will vote for him.’ She pauses. ‘Or me.’
I shrug. ‘As if I care,’ I say. ‘It’s just a silly little school concert.’
Yes, it is. But I care, I care enormously. Jack might be popular – maybe I even like him a little bit – but I don’t think he and his gang are very good dancers all the same.
The hall fills up with all the kids. If I peep out of the wings I can see the panel of judges sitting on a bench right in front of the stage. At Mr Roberts’s suggestion they’ve all got dressed up. Both the boys are in white T-shirts, trying for the Simon Cowell look, and the girls are in their big sisters’ posh frocks. One of them is even wearing a blonde wig.
Mr Roberts goes bustling onto the stage. He’s put on an embarrassingly weird shiny brocade jacket, but at least it hides his damp shirt.
‘Hello, everyone. Welcome to Bilefield’s Got Talent!’ he bellows into his mike. He introduces the boys and girls on the judging panel. I can tell by the cheers that both boys are in the Flatboys gang – big mistake.
‘Now for our first act – the Jack the Lads!’ says Mr Roberts.
Jack and his mates bounce onstage, all style and swagger. Jack spits on his hands like he means business and the others spit in unison, making everyone laugh, even the Speedos. Then Mrs Avery puts on their loud music and they start their dance. You can tell they’ve rehearsed a bit. They’ve put in several extra moves, including a pretend fight, but they haven’t worked hard enough at it. Jack trips several times, and one of his lads falls on his bum when he tries a backflip. They’re all a bit rubbish at keeping time with the music and they don’t end properly – they just look at each other and then try to stop when Jack does, petering out so that at first no one realizes they’ve finished, so no one claps. There’s an awkward pause – and then sudden cheers and applause, mixed with loud booing and hissing from the Speedo boys.
Then the panel have their say. Both boys and the girl in the blonde wig insist the Jack the Lads are fantastic. The littlest girl from Year Three looks puzzled and mumbles that she didn’t think they were that great. She doesn’t live on the Bilefield Estate so she’s not associated with either gang. When she votes she gives the Jack the Lads five out of ten, and then looks worried when the audience hiss her. The other three judges each give the Jack the Lads ten. It’s crazy – a performance should be perfect to warrant ten out of ten – but half the audience approves noisily, while the other half yells abuse.
/> Mr Roberts has a hard job quietening everyone down to announce the next act, Girls Very Soft. As their name suggests, they sing very softly at first, but then get louder and louder until they’re belting it out at the end of their song. I don’t know whose idea it was, but it works well. They dance well too, though their routine is a bit basic. The other half of the audience cheers loudly this time. Someone whispers that Simone is the girlfriend of one of the Speedos. The little girl on the panel loves their act and gives them an eight, but Blonde Wig and the boys say they are prissy rubbish and give them two.
Fareed and Hannah are hopeless. Poor Fareed keeps dropping his cards and Hannah rushes round in a fluster trying to pick them up and drops them all over again. Someone shouts, ‘Off!’ and then nearly everyone starts chanting, ‘Off, off, off!’ though Mr Roberts has specifically said everyone can complete their performance. I can’t understand why Fareed and Hannah don’t clear off because they’re both all hot and sweaty now, and Fareed is fumbling every trick. Mr Roberts must have told him to remember to smile at his audience because he grins madly the entire time, baring all his teeth. When the next trick goes completely wrong, his smile is still fixed on his face. Someone bursts out laughing – and then everyone is laughing, and someone else starts clapping. When Fareed’s toy rabbit finally falls right out his top hat, everyone collapses and then cheers.
Fareed isn’t a Flatboy or a Speedo and so the voting is bizarre. One of the boys gives him nought, but the other boy gives him nine because he still can’t stop laughing. The two girls give him five, so weirdly his final score is higher than Girls Very Soft.
The girl dancers call themselves the Dancing Queens. They’re all wearing shocking pink T-shirts and little black shorts and those fake tiaras that light up in their hair. All the boys whistle, whether Flatboy or Speedo. Their dancing isn’t really all that great, they just repeat the same sequence of steps again and again, but they get huge cheers from the Speedos because one of them has a brother in their gang – so the Flatboys on the panel meanly mark them with a three, though Blonde Wig is fairer this time and gives them a six, because she’s clearly impressed by their costumes, and the little girl gives them ten.